


Rose Lalonde, Go Fuck Yourself!

by Varynova



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirk Is A Transmed And We're All Very Embarrassed For Him, Discussion of Childbirth, Discussion of Pregnancy, F/F, Gender Meta, Genital dysphoria, Look I Don't Love Selfcest Either But This Barely Even Counts Right, Nonconsensual Body Modification, Roses Of Trans Experience, Sexual Content, Tentabulges (Homestuck)(Of A Sort), Trans Female Character, Transmedicalism, Vibrators (Of A Sort)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24614866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varynova/pseuds/Varynova
Summary: A robot with her face has come calling to the home of Rose Lalonde while her wife is away. And what is a middle-aged Seer to do when such an opportunity presents itself?
Relationships: Rose Lalonde ♠ Rosebot (Homestuck)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Rose Lalonde, Go Fuck Yourself!

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [Esther's](https://twitter.com/0pacifica) [meme redrawing](https://twitter.com/0pacifica/status/1269846747339161600?s=20) of Kanaya, Rose, and Rosebot sharing a bed.

I've gotten into a serious brawl only once before in my entire life. A boy in grade school attempted to plant his romantic mark onto my face, and rather than let that happen I showed him exactly where my body ended and his began. Luckily, as this was a Montessori school, their approach was not to expel me, but rather to take the two of us to a secluded classroom to preach how we could use our 'conflict resolution' skills to work through our mutual disagreement. When the teacher stepped away to allow us to discuss, I resolved the conflict-- and I resolved his face with my fist until it was a ruddy umber.

I was homeschooled from then on.

This feels different, though-- coming face to faceplate with the shining red ocular ports of my own parallel universe robot clone should have caught me off guard, and would have, had she not deigned to explain at length why she was here, in my home.

"Your universe has failed so utterly to produce any Relevant challengers to the supremacy of my own," she declares, glaring at the approximations of nails on her stubby gray fingers, "save for one or two lucky stragglers. I've been sent to discover what could possibly have gone so wrong, and to ensure nothing like it happens again."

I watch her, watching me. She, metal skin and bolted faceplate glaring down, two, maybe three inches taller than I; her impeccable, short-shorn coiffure dancing like a helmet inches off the neckhem of her dress. Opposite her, me, standing around in one of my wife’s ancient bedshirts, loose around my limbs and adorned with a graphic of crossed chainsaw and hedge, blazoned with the words ‘LOVE MY GARDEN’. Still, I stand my ground, pointing an accusatory finger. "Do you really think this universe has gone so off-course that I can't guess your true motives? That the moment you and Dirk developed the power to move yourselves between timelines, you wouldn't seek out a more fortuitous version of yourself with whom to... become acquainted?"

Rosebot glares. Before I can blink, she's flashed behind me, and has woven those same thick fingers into my overgrown crown of blonde hair. She hoists me from the ground, and slams me onto my back, instantly crashing my brain in a static of spinal pain and ringing ears. She dives for my head, and I barely roll away from her fist in time to hear the floorboards crunch and splinter under her withering assault. I unsheath the Quills in either hand, and she only succeeds in pinning one under her robotic permaheel before I send a gout of searing lightning directly into her chest. The scent of ozone and burning rubber exudes.

She stumbles back, and I half-fly, half-handspring to my feet again. She doesn't look tired-- I'd conjecture because, robot-- but she does look dazed, off balance. Just enough time for a snide remark.

"Heels, really? Do you have swappable panels for when you need flats, or are you just... Like this, now?"

I watch the servodilators in her irises whir and conjugate as she studies my face. Sure, she's familiar with what it looked like a dozen years ago, but given the shape of her form I'd wager she was 23, at most, when she got put into that thing. Either that, or whoever designed that body for her had some serious issues with women. (Not necessarily exclusive notions, mind you.)

What must she think, looking into the eyes of her 37-year-old self? Certainly she sees the lines across my ageless face, the body that's borne a child, the scars of a veteran of a deific planetary war and a pangalactic creation myth likewise. But what I see isn't too flattering, either: the shapely hips; the plumped lips; the concerted, rounded breasts, pert and globular without so much as a padded bra. My frame never looked like that, and yet, she's so unmistakably me that I almost forgot we were dueling.

Then, she charges me and pins me to the wall, robotic monotone of a shout shearing itself into my ears.

"Show me your body. Remove your attire, I desire to see what you've become."

I would argue, hem and hedge and obfuscate, but I must admit to exactly as prurient an interest in the ways her form has diverged as she must have for my own, hence overcoming our mutual distaste for directness. I can think of no better way to have that interest met. So I shrug.

"...Alright."

\--

We're laying next to each other in a pile of pillows on the floor, denuded. She, too-- to her credit-- removed her Hellenic orange wrap-dress, though perhaps her metallic form would be less lascivious to an onlooker than my own fleshy one. I guide her hand underneath my stomach to rest against my pubic bone.

"Here. If you've got touch sensors, you should be able to feel- right there, just on the curve where it slopes into my pelvis. Feel that? That's where her head was, developing inside me."

"Nonsense. That's much too large for a gestating infant."

I laugh. "Well, she was Jade's kid. What did you expect?"

This is the first time Rosebot truly looks caught off-guard. She squints almost imperceptibly, and I notice it only because that’s how I would react to this information in her place.

"She turned out pretty big. Nine pounds, eight ounces. Wrought hell on me in labor, but can't say I was surprised.”

I can see the disgust written across the corners of Rosebot's mouth. But I persist. "What did you expect? We may have been produced through parthenogenesis, but after the Game I happened to be perfectly capable of reproduction. And it came up."

"You were... capable of reproduction, after the game. I deduce that you had a vulva, then."

"Yep, installed by Skaia herself. Without my permission, might I add."

She's silent, the chromed silicate composite of her lips as pursed as her body is capable.

"I take it that you... didn't?"

She shakes her head.

"How is it that our two universes could have... Well, never mind that. We'll leave the metaphysics for another time. I presume that means you had the original hardware right up until you got..."

"Upgraded? Correct. It took some time to adjust."

"Because if you were anything like me..."

"I never asked to be 'corrected'."

Ugh. That does sound like the work of one Dirk Strider. I don’t have to query her; I know he never asked what she wanted from that body, just trusted that he already knew best.

She stiffens, turning to face me as she sits upright. “I would like to touch you, now. Sexually.”

I pout. “What, no kissing, first? No makeouts to get me revved up and in the mood? What do I get in return?”

Rosebot glares. “What you ‘get’ will be made evident in just a moment. Recumb.”

I hadn’t expected her to acquiesce, but my god, how can she be so humorless for literally being me?

“And you have no inhibition or concerns about engaging sexually with an older paradox version of yourself?” I say, rolling my hips playfully.

“You know very well I hold no such qualm. I would expect it more from you, really.”

“No,” I admit, “I don’t either. I can’t even pretend it wouldn’t be obvious to you.” The tiny yellow pinpricks in the red seas of her eyes track up my body. No, I didn’t expect her to give up anything about her state of mind; I wouldn’t were I her, here, now, but it’s likely she’ll be more forthcoming with physical details than emotional ones, so I suppose I can work on that as we go.

“Fine.” I chuckle, since I know it will annoy her. “Suit yourself.” I hitch my hips into the air, rolling my shoulders back against the pillows, and she leans in, hand still against my stomach.

I wrap my hand around her wrist, guiding her fingers down to curve against my intimates, and feel the cleft of her fingers rub the sensitive mound of my clit. I must’ve made a noise at it, because she readjusts, probing the lengths of her digits along my lips, and I watch her face expectantly.

Her hand is surprisingly warm to the touch, and pliant, too, fingertips giving and soft as two press into my depths. I moan, back curling forward, and she reaches to support me, rolling me into a recumbent posture. “Your body is too soft. Easily punctured, easily maimed.”

“Admit it. You miss having a body of flesh and sinews, no matter what cool features might’ve been installed in the meantime.”

My arms wrap around her hips, but she gives me a smug, sharp-toothed grin as she grinds the heel of her hand in little circles against my hood. “It’s not even evident,” she says, “where I can best manipulate you to maximize your sexual satisfaction.”

I try to riposte, but the words catch on my teeth as I breathe a sighing grunt. “Right-- there, curl them against the roof of it. You’ll feel-” I feel her twin fingers as they follow my commands and run up against the ridging of my g-spot, causing my hips to buck as I loose another instinctual groan.

“This sensation is foreign,” she murmurs, much quieter now. I can feel her own back arch against my hand, so I drag my fingers across her thigh, into her lap. Her mouth falls open, and even without touching it I can feel the heat radiating off of her face-- a simulation mimicking the blush response, I’d wager, even as her skin remains the same pallid, gunmetal gray.

My palm digs up against the warm hump of her crotch, and her synthesized speech grows husky, dark. "That switch under your thumb engages my internal vibratory functions. My programming prohibits me from activating it while others are present. ...Or deactivating it."

Despite her fingers playing and curling inside my body, I face her with an incredulous glance. "Did... Dirk install that?"

"No. It was my own modification. Both the switch, and the... inhibitions."

I gasp a hot breath into the spikes of her tiara. I pull our bodies closer together, pressing my clavicle against hers and putting my lips against the nape of her neck. "Well, well. You kinky, _kinky_ girl. You didn’t have to tell me about that, did you? And yet, you’ve blundered into disclosing your fatal flaw. I don’t recall being so foolish, at your age."

The microfibers of her hair brush my cheek. I dig my fingers into whatever purchase they can find among her vulcanized exterior. And others into her privates, attempting to reflect back the favors granted by her explorations.

“When did you become such a, as the vernacular states, ‘milf’?”, she growls.

I can feel the heat bloom from my cheeks as I laugh. “About the same time you became a fuckbot, I suspect. Luckily for both of us.”

“No,” she intones, voice thick with effort. “ _This_ is the lucky part, at least for you.”

It slickens my hand before I can fully process the appendage lapping at my wrist. The tentacle protrudes from between her labia-- slick with secretions, but unlike Kanaya’s, prehensile to the tip. Judging by the way she clenches her eyes shut when I twine it between my fingers and toy with the very end, appreciably sensitive, as well. I smirk. “Oh, _Rosebot._ You _didn’t_ \-- how delightfully wicked.”

“Don’t pretend to be surprised. You’d have done precisely the same. And my name is just Rose,” she grumbles. “Don’t call me Rosebot.”

“Of course.” My hand curves back to meet her new accessory, and I take it into my palm, slicking the whole of both in its excited juices.

“What? No retort about how you retain the status of ‘true Rose’, ‘alpha Rose’, ‘human Rose’?”

My thumb rests against her button. “I don’t need to needle you. Not when I’ve got this.” Just as I release her crotch to engage with my newfound toy, I press it in until I hear the click.

The bass-laden rumble in her deepest places mingles with an incoherent noise from her throat, like a dissonant 8-bit chord smearing flat. But she folds her body around mine, arm against my shoulderblade taut and open mouth brought to bare against the dangling bud of my ear. She digs for phonemes, but they escape her, and her voice unfolds into a singularly needy moan.

“Not so vocal now, are you?” My hand enravels along the smooth segments of her pseudopod, and my firm grip delivers a first teasing stroke along its shaft. My tongue plays against my lips, and I feel my stomach tighten as I envisage the possibilities. “I have to,” I say haltingly. “Have it. Inside me.”

Rose grins, this one carved with the barest tinge of malice. “Really? You, Rose Lalonde, breathlessly horny because you’ve located a tentacular appendage?”

“Shhhhhhut up.” It’s the best I can do, sadly, but Rose laughs anyway.

She releases another haggard murmur, a noise of assent, so I bring myself up to my knees, then toss one across her body. Her fingers rise with me, hilted snugly the whole way. I lay her back into the pillows, hand still wrapped around her writhing flagellum, and follow her down to touch my stomach against hers.

I usher her into me, first by degrees, then whole inches, letting my hand drift to her shoulder so that I may press needy hips against hers and envelop the whole lubricated mass of her tentacle. As it comes to rest, I sigh into her hair, and toss my head back. Her hands draw up, clearly just as eager for our bodies to tangle and grind. They find the back of my neck, already drenched in pungent sweat, and her fingers play in my hair, tugging at it again, more sweetly this time. She pulls me down, palms pressed to my cheeks, tongue lapping against my own as the tremors inside her build from the slight rumbles of her motor to the great wracking tsunami of a woman about to come.

“Not yet, Rose,” I chide between liplocks. “I’m not ready. So don’t _fucking_ come yet.”

She growls, perhaps as much in frustration as in deeply-pent eros, but her body moves with mine, now driving her length to the deepest crevices inside me. I can even feel the tip of it-- blunted but pronounced, insistent, filled with muted reverberations--probe and dredge each inch of my insides.

Her spine arcs up, some nigh-wordless query barely able to escape her lips. “R-rose...”, she mutters, and I press her sternum into mine as I feel my own body begin to quake with sympathetic waves.

I groan my most intelligible reply. “Urngh,” I argue, and in place of energy spent on further thoughts I dig my quaint little human teeth into the curve right where her shoulder meets the base of her neck and she belts a deeply primal noise and suddenly--

My sight sears with a brilliant starburst of white and I pinch my eyes shut, unable to dam back the torrent pounding away against my insides for a moment longer, and desperately hold my hips down against her, filling my body with her spasming length. Rose must feel the same, as her movements become stiff and erratic, twitching against my interior and coating my whole crotch in her leavings. I moan, curling atop her like a thing posessed by need, deranged and humping madly, and I feel the sudden clench of her stomach as she looses a final torrent of thrusts into my body, legs locked around my own, jagged breaths hot against the skin of my back.

I turn off her vibrator, and we lay there, for a time. Eventually I feel her core engage again, deep, sighed exhale accompanying the slow relaxing of her slender robotic thighs. I slide my pelvis down hers, and use a thumb to gently assist her retraction from my satisfied crotch. She grunts again, but her arms slacken, and I roll off of her onto the mound of pillows.

“I hope you learned what you came here for. You showed me, alright-- not here to fuck yourself, no doubt in my mind.”

The last thing my eyes see as they flit closed once more is her own, fluttering shut likewise, as I drift off into a deep slumber.

\--

A short while later, I stir, and with effort I pluck Rose from the pile and set her into the bed. I take up the spot next to her-- my wife’s, I realize too late-- but before I can roll away and attempt to resume my nap she speaks.

“I do truly loathe you, you know.”

“You’re a robot. You don’t even need to sleep, do you?”

The servomotors of her shaking head whir, _vzht-vzht-vzht-vzht_. “I loathe you because you decided to cling to this. This ‘normal’ life, a parochial half-existence in some backwater, irrelevant universe. I bet you even think you’re happy. This isn’t what any Rose should want.”

“I’m sure your Kanaya appreciated that sentiment, too.” I don’t roll towards her, but I can feel the sting of her lava-tone lenses boring into the back of my neck. “I didn’t ‘choose’ this life,” I continue, “it was simply the most appropriate option for my circumstances. I don’t begrudge you for doing the same, even if you clearly succumbed to something truly sinister in becoming... this.”

A pause.

I wrap the gray topsheet below my breasts, and sit up against the pillows. I can’t help voicing my next thought, or the laugh that follows it. “I wonder. Does a lay of opportunity with my alternate-universe self count as infidelity? I’d hate to have to inform my wife of the specifics of my afternoon.”

Rose rises, posture erect, and grimaces. When I mentioned Kanaya? “As you were the instigator of this little tryst, I suppose that is a ponderance that you yourself must reckon with.”

“Wait, I was the instigator, here? _You’re_ the one who demanded to finger _me_ first, _and_ you’re the one who called me a milf...” But I stop when the proverbial lightbulb ignites in my cranium. “When you said that you were feeling an unfamiliar sensation... were you referring to arousal? Have you not been... getting any action, in your universe?”

Another headshake, another set of whirs. “I have been, some. From Terezi. But it isn’t... the feeling is very different.”

“Doesn’t do it for ya’, huh?”

“Merely different. I am rather quite used to being touched in... other ways, rougher, more overtly physically threatening, and while I am capable of translating those into sexual satisfaction having another being interface with my genitals without that threat is something I haven’t experienced in--”

I cut her off. “I know what you’re going through. I have empathy for this, you know? I’ve experienced it plenty-- the agony, the half-measures, the stories you tell yourself about how it’s going to be alright regardless, no matter whether your life feels half-worthless because you don’t know how to live with yourself. I remember those feelings, though I was lucky enough that they subsided in time, or at least I learned to live with the dysphoria. If I’d been offered the deal you got at the age you are, hell, I don’t know if I would’ve turned it down, either. Even if it meant feeling like I could no longer call my body my own.”

“Don’t psychopathologize me, Rose,” she spits.

“Why not? You’re me, after all. Hell, I pretty much _did_ accept just such an offer, when I threw away my faculties of speech and rampaged through the whole Medium simply because I found merely _having a body_ so intolerable, and the experiences of the physical world so tiring, unnecessary, insufferable. Grief over my mother dying didn’t help, of course, but-- oh, you already knew all this, didn’t you.”

“Our experiences are identical.”

“To a point. In fact, if the game decided that I needed to be able to bear children and you didn’t, I wonder if that was the very point at which our fates split and our experiences diverged. But you decided merely being trans and happy wasn’t good enough for you, so you had to give up your body.”

She holds a breath, or at least I assume that’s what she’s doing. In her place I would be prolonging a sigh, but I suspect that the absence of the sound of her chest cavity’s contracting airpump is the closest she can approximate.

“I haven’t had sex like that since Kanaya,” she says.

“I’m sorry.” I’m sure it sounds sarcastic-- that’s what I’d think, in her place-- so I elaborate. “She left you, didn’t she? That would be hard.”

“No. Our separation was mutual. And it was clearly...”

In all my many years of experience with Dirk’s creations, I’ve never seen a robot deliver a look I’d refer to as ‘a thousand yards away’. Perhaps I’m just projecting, but when she stares up at the ceiling, that’s all I can see.

“Necessary.”


End file.
